Grian an Mheithimh in úllghort,A June sun in an orchard,
Is siosarnach i síoda an tráthnóna,A rustle in the silk of afternoon,
Beach mhallaithe ag portaireachtThe droning of an ill-natured bee
Mar scréadstracadh ar an nóinbhrat.Loudly ripping the poem of evening.

Do chuimhníos ar an láimh a dhein an scríbhinn,I remember the hand that did the writing
Lámh a bhí inaitheanta mar aghaidh,A hand as familiar as a face
Lámh a thál riamh cneastacht seana-Bhíobla,A hand that dispersed kindness like an old Bible
Lámh a bhí mar bhalsam is tú tinn.A hand that was like the balsam and you ill.

Agus thit an Meitheamh siar isteach sa Gheimhreadh,And June toppled backwards into Winter.
Den úllghort deineadh reilig bhán cois abhann,The orchard became a white graveyard by a river.
Is i lár na balbh-bháine i mo thimpeallIn the midst of the dumb whiteness all around me
Do liúigh os ard sa tsneachta an dúpholl,The dark hole screamed loudly in the snow.

Gile gearrchaile lá a céad chomaoine,The white of a young girl on the day of her First Communion,
Gile abhlainne Dé Domhnaigh ar altóir,The white of the holy water, Sunday on the altar,
Gile bainne ag sreangtheitheadh as na cíocaibh,The white of milk slowly issuing from the breasts,
Nuair a chuireadar mo mháthair, gile an fhóid.When they buried my mother, the white of the sward.

Agus d’fhan os cionn na huaighe fé mar go mb’eol diIt waited over the grave as if it knew
o raibh an toisc a thug í ceilte ar cháchThat the reason why it came was unknown to all
Ach an té a bhí ag feitheamh ins an gcomhrainn,Save the person who was waiting in the coffin
Is do rinneas éad fén gcaidreamh neamhghnách.And I was jealous of the unusual affinity.

Tháinig na scológa le borbthorann sluasad,The gravediggers came with the rough noise of shovels.
Is do scuabadar le fuinneamh an chré isteach san uaigh,And vigorously swept the clay into the grave.
D’fhéachas sa treo eile, bhí comharsa ag glanadh a ghlúine,I looked the other way, a man was brushing his knees.
D’fhéachas ar an sagart is bhí saoltacht ina ghnúis.I looked at the priest, in his face was worldliness.

Grian an Mheithimh in úllghort,A June sun in an orchard,
Is siosarnach i síoda an tráthnóna,A rustle in the silk of afternoon.
Beach mhallaithe ag portaireachtThe droning of an ill-natured bee,
Mar scréadstracadh ar an nóinbhrat.Loudly ripping the film of evening.